Page 43 of Chased By My Grumpy Alpha
“What are you doing now?”
I freeze, mortified that he has caught me staring. “I was just...trying to see how big your hands are.”
He stops walking entirely, turning to face me with an expression I can’t quite read. “How big my hands are?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “They just look really big, that’s all.”
Instead of the exasperated response I expect, he steps toward me. Before I can protest, he reaches out and places his palm flat against mine, pressing our hands together.
My breath catches. His hand completely dwarfs mine, his fingers extending well past the tips of mine, his palm easily twice the width of mine. The warmth of his skin against mine sends an odd flutter through my stomach.
“Big enough?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.
Flustered, I quickly lower my hand, breaking the contact. “They’re...gigantic.”
He bristles. “Gigantic?”
“Well, yeah. Look at them!” I gesture helplessly. “They’re huge!”
“You’re short,” he counters, his voice flat.
“I’m average height!”
“For a child, maybe.”
I sputter indignantly. “I am not short! You’re just freakishly tall!”
“Freakishly tall?” His eyebrows rise menacingly.
“And your hands are enormous!”
“They’re proportionate to my body.”
“Your body is also enormous!”
He crosses his arms over his chest—his enormous chest—and glares down at me. “There’s nothing wrong with my size.”
“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it! I just said you’re huge!”
“Huge,” he repeats.
“Like a mountain,” I add helpfully. Then, when his expression darkens further, I realize this may not have been the right thing to say.
We stare at each other for a moment, the tension palpable between us, before Luna’s purr breaks the silence. She is stillperched on Lucian’s shoulder, completely unbothered by our bickering.
“Traitor,” I mutter to her.
We resume walking in strained silence, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and our footsteps. After a few minutes, curiosity gets the better of me.
“Since you’re a mercenary,” I begin hesitantly, “you don’t have a pack to call your own, right?”
He takes his time before responding. “Why do you ask?”
“How do you get healing tonics? Medical supplies?” I think about the bandages wrapped around his torso. “I mean, when you get injured and there’s no one like me around to patch you up.”
Another long pause. “I have…a way.”
The evasive answer makes me curious, but I don’t push. Instead, I offer him a small smile. “That must be nice. Having reliable sources, I mean.” The smile feels harder to maintain than usual. “I’m beginning to think I may not survive this infection in my leg.”
